


Weave a circle round him thrice

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Kubla Khan, Magic Realism, Poetry, Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A magical realism fusion with Samuel Taylor Coleridge's <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=48043&pageno=58">'Kubla Khan.'</a> Yes, really. Mostly inspired by <a href="http://www.megaupload.com/?d=L5XBPLA1">this.</a></p><p><i>Nourishment, freely given, is a symbolic gesture of lifesaving; a life saved is a life owed.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Weave a circle round him thrice

In the stifling heat of desert nights, he dreams of ice. He teeters on the edge of a chasm so deep he can only hear the bottom of it, enveloped as it is by a thick mist bursting up from the river rumbling through its depths. The dome above him seems miles away, covered in glittering stalactites delicate and deadly. The cave is bigger than any that could possibly exist, dwarfing cathedrals and stadiums, beyond any mere conception of man and engineering. The air inside vibrates with a chill tension; it’s colder than any air he’s breathed in months and he thinks he can feel it crystallise within his lungs. The walls nearest him are thick, rippling sheets of ice; a raging falls frozen in turmoil.

He walks; all he can do is walk, or freeze. The river winds and twists, creating a confounding labyrinth of ice and stone and mist. He walks for hours, for days, until he turns a new corner to see ice vanish into lush vegetation, gardens wild and alive and rich with the heavy scent of ritual. The trees are thriving with life and whispering voices carry on the wind. They sound ancient and weary and tell of bloodshed and anger, fear and loyalty.

When he wakes those voices linger in his mind, their language timeless and universal and terrifying. Each time he sleeps he slips back into that sublime world, his footsteps trekking new trails through grottos and woods. Beyond the whispering trees he never meets another human; how can a world be so full of history and yet empty?

One night he closes his eyes and steps into a forest clearing, the sky above hidden by a verdant canopy. Although he sees no living creatures, the air is heavy with life and death. A flash of movement: an object, green, the size of an apple, arcing up into space, a pause that seems interminable – time moves differently here – then a freefall. It is caught – _thwack_ – in the palm of a man who has just stepped out from the forest. John starts but rights himself quickly; the man’s teeth gleam in a predatory smile.

“You’re a soldier.” It’s not a question and the man’s voice, deep and heavy, is hoarse. John wonders if he is the only person to ever venture this far.

“Yes. How did you –”

“Follow me.” He turns and walks back into the woods, as if assured John will follow. He does.

When John catches up, the man is leaning against a tree, biting into the fruit he had been tossing in the air. While all around them, the trees are bursting with leaves, each one perfectly shaped, vibrant green, and delicately thin, this tree alone bears fruit. Each one hangs heavy on its branch, perfectly ripe and achingly beautiful. John’s mind flashes with thoughts of forbidden knowledge and original sin.

Reaching up with a slim hand, the man plucks one piece of fruit. A perfume of honey and salt and rich, earthy sweetness is released into the air. Its flesh a pale, gleaming green, it seems to glow, to blush, to swell at its own plucking and the caress of human touch. The man offers it to John, balanced on a flat, outstretched palm.

John’s mum read him fairy tales before bed; he knows that an offering of food rarely comes without obligation. Nourishment, freely given, is a symbolic gesture of lifesaving; a life saved is a life owed. He thinks of claims and ownership, favours won and lost, and in his head a voice cries beware. He eats the fruit anyway. The fruit is crisp against his teeth, yielding its juices only with firm pressure; when he bites it bursts against his tongue, tasting of clean, fresh rain in a thunderstorm, of the pure beauty that comes with sublime, awe-inspiring destruction. It tastes like everything he’s ever wanted from life, everything he didn’t know he was chasing.

“It tastes…terrifying.” The man opposite him cocks his head, appraisingly.

“Fascinating,” he says, and John knows it is _fascinating_ to him, not merely interesting, not only unexpected, but ensnaring and enrapturing. John is overwhelmed with the almost physical weight of the man’s interest, of his searching eyes, his assessment. “The honey-dew tastes different to each individual. Its taste is one of hunger.”

John is momentarily confused before he works out what he means by _hunger_. “You don’t mean feeling a bit peckish. Spiritual hunger?”

“If you like.” He doesn’t offer any more explanation and John tries not to think about the _danger_ his soul apparently seeks.

“Who _are_ you?” he asks. The man just grins, a smile spiked with peril and promise.

He stops dreaming of caverns and forests when he arrives back in London, replaced by all the sand, blood, and bullets he wishes he wouldn’t remember. The years pass and John half-forgets him, remembering only in tangled dreams filled with songs he can’t recall once woken. In the first moments of waking, years ago, he had tried to write down what he had seen, to build those caves of ice through words, but he now knows such attempts are recollection are useless. The images slip from his mind, leaving naught but vague glimpses of green canopy and dark curls.

Until one day, he turns a corner and is slammed by memory. A half-heard cry telling of battlefields and blood, the taste of danger on his tongue, and a slim, pale hand reaching for his. John offers it up like it is choice, like there is such a thing as free will. But the minute John walks into the lab, he knows that time is up, that his debt is being called in.

He finds he doesn’t mind at all.

And finally the man with flashing eyes has a name.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been languishing on my hard drive forever, mostly because I don't really know what the hell it is. It's inspired by Benedict's voice (and hair, and eyes), a childhood fascination with Abyssinian maids playing on dulcimers, and a need to make John magically, bindingly, willingly Sherlock's.


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